


Betroffenheit

by YoricksTalkingSkull



Category: Holby City
Genre: Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoricksTalkingSkull/pseuds/YoricksTalkingSkull
Summary: Following the death of her daughter, Serena cannot sleep. Jason makes a phone call to the only person he thinks can help: Dr. Bernie Wolfe.Timeline where the first kiss happened, but Serena acted first. Post Kiev and death of Elinor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Betroffenheit is a German word, one that indicates the stages of fallout from an initial trauma.

_'I would like to give you the silver_

_branch, the small white flower, the one_

_word that will protect you_

_from the grief at the center_

_of your dream, from the grief_

_at the center.'_

 

\--Margaret Atwood, _Variation on the Word Sleep_

***

Language could not enter this place. Bernie Wolfe and Serena Campbell have seen enough as doctors to know that words—even the best-meaning kind—are limited in their scope. It's because words given in times of grief, they were most fragile of all. They were delicate, as readily destructible as paper resting on a sweated palm.

 

_Bernie._

Serena keeps a steady eye on her, and this gets her through the hellish, last twelve hours. They nearly lost Fletch, and Bernie believes she’s to blame. As they go on about it on the surgical theatre floor, Serena tries to reassure Bernie that what happened isn’t her fault. But what she really wants to do is reach out, to hold her, cradle her arms, and draw her in. But there is something selfish Serena identifies in the idea, something wanting, charged.

She does not indulge in it, so she uses words:

_'You are the most fantastic, fearless doctor in this entire hospital.'_

And this unexpectedly breaks Bernie, it cracks away the already weakened shell of her. Serena senses it as Bernie's eyes wander to her lips. Something stops her from what she is about to do though, because her arms, they shift, militantly, to her sides.

Her lips fall instead to the crook of her Serena's neck and in the silence that follows, Serena lets a small gasp of yearning escape her opened mouth.

The truth is that the idea of ending their friendship, of walking into this nebulous space of longing and want, is as terrifying as it is beautiful. It is a rose with roots so gnarled they cannot be torn from her heart. As Bernie trembles against her, Serena does not know when this seed was planted, but that the roots of who and what they are together had been cruelly fixed, for quite some time. 

What Serena cannot betray, even lying here, as Bernie now presses her lips into her neck, is how desperately she wants to have this woman’s body against her own. The fact that Bernie is a woman, well—Serena discovers in her nights, waking moments and dreams—it mattered less and less that the person she has slowly fallen in love with is a woman.

She thinks of it like this: once she was a child, waking to find snow had fallen overnight. The world is the same, and the world is different, and so it is with love. 

As Bernie heaves against her, again, Serena tries to think of a way to end it.

She reaches out and holds Bernie’s face in her hands, and when Bernie’s eyes meet hers, they reveal multitudes. 

'You know you can,' Serena says, lifting Bernie’s hand to cradle her own jaw, 'if you want to, Bernie.'

She pulls away, her eyes clasp shut. 'I shouldn’t—'

'But you do,' Serena says, 'you want to.'

'I don’t think,' Bernie says, blinking up at the ceiling, 'you know, Serena, _what_ it is that I want. And how desperately it is that I want it.'

Serena takes hold of her chin, and pulls her face back to meet hers. At this, Bernie tries to capture Serena’s lips within her own once again, but she reigns in the last of her reserve. Her head falls to where it was, into the crook of Serena’s neck.

' _Serena_.'

Her name is a kiss against her skin, a plea, the final request.

Serena answers it.

Bernie is enveloped in a flood of sensations, primal and dark, as Serena’s lips meld into her own. The act is charged, Bernie can feel it, instinctively, in the experimental angling of their hands and bodies, as they finally allow themselves to have one another.

When Serena’s knee pushes at the apex of Bernie’s legs though, that is when she loses her last of her control. She grabs Serena's shoulders to reign her in. Completely taken, she allows herself to succumb to what Serena is doing to her with the ministrations of her mouth, the simultaneous thrust of her knee. And when Serena drives hard with that knee, at her center, Bernie's mouth falls open. Serena sighs, pushes her down to claim her opened mouth.

Bernie's body falls under the weight of it all, and Serena remains above her, her hand pulls under Bernie’s scrub top. As Serena begins to tug at her breasts, Bernie's hands rise to cradle the back of Serena's neck, so she can kiss her in the way she's always wanted to: with bruising pressure. 

But before she can do so, Serena extricates herself from her.

Bernie stares up at her, incredulously.

'I don’t want to do this here,' Serena says, by means of explanation.

She was still panting, trying to catch her breath.

'Well, I definitely could,' Bernie mutters.

Serena laughs.

'If you like, Miss Wolfe, I would follow me before I do some serious damage.'

At this, a deepened scarlet blooms across Bernie’s face. Serena offers her hand, and Bernie takes it. She is dragged up, off the surgical floor.

'After you, Miss Campbell,' she says, her face burning.

***

It was a challenge to get home—there was Serena talking them out of grasping and pulling at each other in the elevator, in the car park, the car itself—but when they are home, together in Serena’s bed, Serena shuts off her bedside lamp, and immediately sets back to work, weaving fingers through Bernie’s hair, kissing her.

Only this time, her ministrations carry no hesitation; they are rough. Serena lifts her own body above Bernie’s and pushes her down, hands plastering her arms against the headboard, pinning her.

But her kisses, searing across her neck--they are the gentlest, most reverent thing Bernie ever felt. 

They go on like this for quite some time, Bernie allowing herself to succumb to the pleasure and seduction of Serena's body, until her hands leave Serena’s neck, and then with a twist of their bodies, she pins Serena below her. Serena moans as their chests press together, and Bernie, needing more contact, takes her hand and slips it under Serena’s shirt, to stroke at the soft skin underneath. She splays her hand across Serena’s stomach. Serena takes this time to shift upwards, and slips her thigh between Bernie’s legs again, as they had done in theatre. When they thrust together, Bernie riding her, she sees bone-white flashes behind the lids of her eyes. Bernie slips her hand under Serena’s shirt, her bra, and grasps at her breast, her thumb pressing hard against Serena’s nipple.

'That's really nice, Berenice,' Serena says below her, hissing out a laboured breath. 'But for the love of god, get our damned clothes off.'

Bernie didn't need a second scolding.

Her hands fall to the hem of Serena’s shirt, and pulls it up, over her head. They kiss, limbs tangled in a haze and sweat. Bernie's hand meets the hem of Serena’s scrub trousers and she is about to slip a hand underneath, until she finds herself stopping, her palm firmly planted on Serena's abdomen.

'Are you—' Serena does not know how to gauge Bernie's hesitancy, '—not ready?'

'No,' Bernie reassures. 'It’s just—'

Serena sighs. 'You’re going to have to use words, Major.'

'You’re—' Bernie says, 'god, you're my best friend, Serena.'

Serena raises herself up in the bed, and she then slowly takes Bernie into her arms.

'And you will be tomorrow,' Serena whispers. 'Do you understand?'

When Bernie makes no movement, Serena takes hold of Bernie’s hand and slowly moves it down to the place where she needs her the most, where Bernie was about to go before she began to shrink away from her. She places Bernie’s hand at the hem of her trousers.

'Bernie,' Serena says, her voice breaking. 'I _want_ you.'

And at those words, Bernie pulls her down, to finally grasp at Serena, to cup her. She rubs at her with her thumb on the outside of her underwear. When she slips her hand inside them, her fingers are met with slick, wet heat. She circles three fingers at her center, and they both moan at the contact. Bernie uses the heel of her hand to thrust up against—

' _Bernie_ , I need—' Serena cries out, at the shock of the sensation, but then bites down on Bernie bottom lip, when she kisses her.

Bernie knows what she is asking for, so she breaks the kiss and slips a finger into Serena’s ready heat. She curls the finger and thrusts upwards and lets it rest inside her. She moves to watch Serena’s face begin to fall apart, as her lips begin to part in a wordless, tender sigh. Bernie pulls out, then and presses Serena’s back against the headboard. She moves her trousers and pants down her ankles, and throws them unceremoniously off the bed.

'Your legs, spread them.'

Serena quirks an eyebrow. 'Well then, Major.'

They both laugh at this, but in the moonlight streaming through the widow, Bernie can tell both their bodies are shaking.

'Is-is this okay?' Bernie asks.

'More than okay,' Serena reassures. She moves up from the headboard to kiss her.

And those words, they do things to the woman above her. Bernie hovers over her, and after kissing down the expanse of Serena's stomach, her abdomen, the inside of her thighs, she slips a finger inside her, as Bernie begins to pump in and out of Serena, taking her slowly.

'Darling.' Serena breathes. 'I-I need—'

'What?'

'More,' she says.

So Bernie thrusts harder to meet Serena’s canting hips.

'I’ve wanted you,' Bernie says above her, panting and thrusting. 'For so long.'

Bernie kisses her, and then, at Serena's wanting, slips two fingers inside of her. Her fingers curl, rotate inside, and lift. Serena yells out. The headboard shakes and hits the wall as Bernie’s steady ministrations meet Serena’s wet, gaping heat.

'I—oh!' Serena cries out, meeting her thrusts, pushing against her. 'My god— _Bernie_.'

 _'Serena,'_ Bernie whispers. _'I want to watch-'_

As they continue, Serena now looking into Bernie’s eyes, they know that unfolding between them is so commonplace. Yet, for the two of them, and all they had been through, this moment is a stolen victory, it is ethereal in its joy. It seems, for a moment, when Bernie is deep inside her, bringing her to the brink of orgasm, that their worlds of entropy finally have order, an irrevocable alignment.

All they had been through, in parallel lives of longing, had brought them to this single place.

And Bernie holds back no longer, pulls her from against the headboard, has her flat on the bed, and takes her with all of the force she has. Her fingers work frantically inside of her, Serena's body pressed down, Bernie pushing her into the mattress. When Serena's close to crashing over, Bernie takes her mouth to the place between Serena’s legs. Her tongue trusts with her fingers, to meet her shuddering, uncontrolled movements.

With this final assault of the senses, Serena finally cries out, Bernie’s name last word that spills from her lips. In the violence of their passion, she brings Bernie’s body down with her. When Serena gains focus, clarity from the afterglow, she makes sure Bernie finishes too, moving her into a position where she can ride out her own orgasm, hard and frantic, against her leg.

When Bernie too is spent, she collapses, her body falling into Serena's waiting arms.

In the moments that follow, they stare upwards, and into the darkness, eyes wide and panting. They listen as the clock at Serena's bedside ticks away. Serena is the first one to speak, and when she does, she props her head up from Bernie’s chest, to see her face. Bernie is smiling in the moonlight, cradling her in her arms. It is a slow, weak smile, but Serena is glad it is there. It gives Serena the courage to say what she had wanted to say for so long now.

 _'How could you have any doubt,'_ she whispers,  _'that I didn’t always want you.'_

 

***

Serena wakes from this dream, the sweetest of her memories, clasping a hand over her mouth. She finds she is too late, however, and a sob leaves her raw throat, and out it bleeds, into the darkness of her bedroom.

Serena feels the hollowed out rise and fall of her aching chest. She tries, over and over, to employ practiced breathing, to soothe what she suspects is another panic attack, of which, she has had several in this month and a half following her daughter's death.

She breathes in through her nose.

_In two seconds. Out four. In two. Out four._

She remembers her bed is empty.

With practice, Serena knows she will be able to control these panic attacks. But now, she cannot control them so much as her own dreams. And her dreams…they are the only escape from this black zoo of grief, this loop of words said and unsaid, the irreparable misunderstandings between her and her daughter.

 _And why wasn’t she there?_   Serena wonders. _Why wasn't Elinor the person she could not save in her nightmare? Why did she see someone else?_

Because in Serena's dream, after she relives one of her most beautiful, secret memories, she must confront a new reality.

The dream folds, her bedroom melts and twists into a hallway. At the end of it, there is a door. She opens it. 

Her biggest fear rests on the floor of a darkened room.

And what she sees, her greatest fear, it fills her with shame.

And Serena allows herself to feel this shame...until she hears a knock at her bedroom door.

 _Jason_ , she thinks. She scrambles to arrange her bedside table, trashing cups for liquor and bottles.

When he knocks again, Serena sits up in bed, so she can see his feet, at least the shadow of them, underneath the bedroom doorway.

'Jason,' she can hear herself saying. 'I’m sorry if I woke you. Please, just...go back to sleep.'

There is no sound after that, for a while. But then she hears the door crack open and she is met with the first image, since the death of her daughter, that is able to draw her out from her own depression, her own grief.

Jason is standing in the doorway; the light of his phone accents his profile. He is crying, and Serena could remember all of the times she had seen Jason cry. She could count them on one hand.

'We will have a visitor in four minutes,' he says, wiping at his nose and eyes.

Serena listens to her clock ticking on her nightstand, and blinks.

'Auntie, can you hear me?'

'A visitor?'

'I called someone,' says Jason. 'I can't help, so naturally I called someone who can.'

Serena gets up then and turns on the bedside lamp. She knows, without looking in her vanity mirror, that her eyes are hollowed out, not even capable of tears any longer. They are deep, raw and dark. And as Serena expects him to, Jason takes immediate note of this. He also takes note of a wine bottle, nearly empty, at her bedside.

'Jason,' she begins, drawing his attention away from the clutter she failed to hide. 'I am not be well, but—'

Jason covers his ears, and begins to drop a steady stream of information.

'The visitor is coming in approximately two minutes and thirty seconds—this is according to google maps, which takes into account local traffic times—if you care to greet our visitor, you have one minute and thirty seconds less than the last time I told you, as you keep on ignoring me.'

Serena makes her way to the doorway.

'Jason,' she asks. 'Who did you call?'

He removes his hands from his ears and crosses his arms. 'You call her to help you every night. At the end of your dream, I mean.'

'Jason—'

'I phoned Dr. Bernie.'

At this, Serena turns her back on him, and yanks out a night robe out from her closet. Once she has it on, she presses her aching head into the door of her wardrobe.

'And what on earth, Jason, would make you think it would be wise to phone Dr. Berenice Bloody Wolfe at…' she takes a swift glance at her clock, '…at three in the morning?'

'I was texting Dr. Bernie.'

'Splendid. You woke her?'

 _'Noo,'_ Jason corrects. _'She_ woke _me.'_

'You are asking me to believe she texted you at three in morning?'

'Yes, she did.' Jason pauses then, finally making eye contact with his aunt. 'And then you woke me with _your_ yelling.'

Serena slams the wardrobe shut. 'Ever heard of a nightmare, Jason?'

'Yes I have,' he says. 'When I have them, you sit on my bed and make me warm milk.'

'Oh,' Serena groans at this, her head throbbing even more than before. 'I hope you called Dr. Wolfe to do that for me.'

'I didn’t,' Jason says. 'Did you want me to?'

Serena plants her forehead into the wardrobe door.

'You are making this difficult, Auntie Serena,' Jason says. 'What I am trying to say—if you would listen—is that you help me when I need it. Dr. Bernie wants to help and seems afraid.'

'Well,' says Serena, 'She is an adult—last time I checked—who can speak to me if she wanted to.'

'But you aren’t speaking to her. You haven’t since the funeral or the few times you went back to the hospital. She said you weren’t answering her texts. Or her calls.'

Serena doesn’t have to check her phone to know this is true. With a tin _clash_ she chucks her last emptied wine bottle in the rubbish bin and focuses the last of her waning attention on Jason.

'When Dr. Wolfe arrives, I want you to thank her, but tell her I cannot entertain at the moment. Am I clear? You of all people should understand that right now, I prefer to be left alone.'

'No.' Jason says. 'I am not doing that. I’m not—'

'Very well then,' Serena says, moving past him. 'I’ll have to do this myself.'

Serena makes her way down the staircase and into the hall. But before she makes it to the door, Jason appeals to her, one last time. His glance, Serena notices, is critical, but ultimately nonjudgmental. If he displays anything in his body language, it’s worry.

'It’s not your fault she’s dead you know,' Jason says, staring down at her.

Serena stares into the darkness of the hall and says nothing as Jason makes his way down the stairs, to where she stands.

'Can I?' he asks.

'Can you?'

But before Serena can realize what he is about to do, Jason envelops her in a crushing hug. His hands don’t know exactly where to go, how to fit into supporting her body, but that is only at first. With some shifting, he finally holds her, he keeps her standing. He pats at her back, and then cradles his Aunt’s head in his hands.

'You know, Auntie Serena,' he says, 'Bernie lost a daughter once. Just like you.'

Serena freezes in his arms, but before she can let out a word, the doorbell rings.


End file.
